Deepfreeze
by Zipper Whippersnapper
Summary: A psychological John Myers-centric tale, based on the transfer from Antarctica back to the Manhattan base and the resultant fallout. Now being re-edited and reposted. Will be updated as time and schoolwork permits.
1. Chapter 1

John's drinking coffee when the transfer notice comes.

The white, slightly-crumpled envelope is dropped haphazardly on the table he's sitting at and left to sit there like a chunk of caked snow, lying wrinkled and water-spotted next to several carved remarks and a collection of sticky rings left behind from past drinks; the man or woman who dropped the letter off vanishes from sight, faceless and unknown and therefore forgotten right away, lost to the low hum of conversation in the mess hall and the winding hallways of the Antarctica base. The young American tilts his head slightly and nudges the piece of mail aside, taking a sip of lukewarm coffee at the same time as he weighs the possible importance of the letter against the hard-earned lethargy that he's enjoying at the moment, mug in hand. It can probably wait until he's done with his coffee –mail is a rarity down here in the Antarctic circle, but then again so are hot drinks and time to enjoy them in. That letter, whatever it is, won't keep him warm and free of thirst.

Blowing on the caffeinated beverage, John sighs quietly and peers into the heavy ceramic mug with a slightly wistful look on his face, memories of real milk and the odd dash of hazelnut syrup or chocolate running over his tongue and the roof of his mouth like little tastes of life back home. But they're not real, they're just figments of his imagination and it's_ instant_ coffee that he's drinking right now – he can't even remember the last time they had fresh-ground coffee here at the Antarctica base. It's simply impossible to have fresh coffee every morning, what with the supply planes only landing once every four to five months when the weather permits. Besides, they're usually filled up with the necessary items; things like alcohol, cigarettes, and real coffee are considered luxuries and don't get delivered as regularly. Creamer and flavor syrups never get delivered – there's no time for hazelnut when you're living in sub-zero temperatures.

A hot drink that looks uncannily like John's is placed next to the envelope and jolts the agent out of his train of thought. A deep voice, underlain with a thick accent, rumbles from the tall man standing on the other side of the table. "This seat is…unpreoccupied?"

John looks up, recognizes the man. "Yeah, Gus. It's not occupied."

Agent Gustav Hoffman nods and drags over another chair so that he can sit down. Although his name speaks of his German origin, nobody calls him that. He's just 'Gus,' the same way John is just 'John' and not 'Agent Myers,' and he's saved John's life more times than the younger agent would like to admit. Of course, John's done the same for Gus – that's the way partnerships work down here in the Antarctic circle – but nobody's keeping track; it all seems to blur together as time progresses into statements tacked onto every act of kindness, of _no problem, besides, I owe you from back in that gorge last season anyway_ and _let's just call it even_ remarks said waveringly while looking down into a seemingly-endless icy pit or watching as the barrel-shaped, toothed monster breathes its last and twitches, glacier-cold eyes horribly mad and yet somehow blank, so blank and peaceful even though you've just emptied an entire clip into the thing and got it right in the chest with your backup knife on top of that because it didn't stop coming, _it just wouldn't stop coming_ –

Gus's black-brown eyes alight upon the letter and the weathered man nods at it. "What is that?"

John feigns disinterest – even though he can feel the now-familiar touch of panic arcing its way up his back and into the flesh around his right eye – and pokes at the envelope again, shrugging slightly. "Just some mail. I haven't read it yet, so I don't know what it really is. It's probably just some junk mail."

It takes a few seconds for Gus to get the weak joke, but he laughs all the same – something John appreciates more than he'll ever say. Gulping down some more of his coffee, he points to it with a gnarled, chapped finger. "You are going to read it now? If it is not a problem, I can read it as well?"

"I'm not going to read it yet. When I'm done with this Sanka, maybe."

Gus nods simply and sips at his own mug of coffee, allowing the silence to thicken and set between the two of them like it has so many times before on patrol with the wind whistling around them or the snow crackling crisply underfoot – both of them are silent yet keyed up, waiting to sense and react to any action in the area, any unsure footstep or foreign rush of air, any sight or smell or sound that speaks of something deadly and just as unrelenting as the cold outside. This time there are no ice wolves or thin sections of ice or wendigo to cause the commotion, but it hardly matters; it's how agents live their lives for however long they've been here and it's practically second nature. John is vaguely reminded that constant hyperawareness is a symptom of psychological trauma.

After a few seconds' thought, John decides to humor his fellow agent and friend; Gus taught him the basics of the languages spoken by the 'foreign' – _they're all foreigners here_, John thinks fleetingly, lost again in winding trains of thought like chains – agents during the beginning of his time at Antarctic Base, so why shouldn't he help him work on his English? A flush almost creeps up his neck at the memory of his first week; he was clueless, so clueless and lost amidst the ragtag group of experts and agents that made up the barebones staff of the base, and maybe that was why – _no_, he thinks, and pushes the memory away. Best to forget, best to ignore. Best to open the letter: John grabs the stout knife from the holster strapped to his leg, slices open the envelope with a clean, efficient movement, and pulls out the letter contained inside. Clearing his throat slightly, he skims through it, reading as he goes and pausing now and again so that Gus can mentally translate.

"Agent John Myers…your work has been exemplary in your current assignment, considering the untimely and unexpected circumstances surrounding your transfer from the Manhattan headquarters last November – November? It's been a while, hasn't it? No Gus, that's not in the letter. Sorry about that…effective immediately you will be transferred back…in order to help in several cases that require…"

_transferred back_

Slowly, almost against his will, his free hand travels up to touch his face; the chapped roughness of frost nipped, unshaven skin meets his fingers and a flutter of hot, shallow breath brushes against his wrist like a summer breeze, floating up from his mouth to skim the scratchy lining of stubble that's accumulated on his face from the time outside. He hasn't shaved since he came in from the last patrol – there hasn't been a need for it here or out there, with only the bare necessities and the everlasting cold for company – and he's given up trying to remind himself to do it, even to acknowledge it unless necessary. His hand moves up more until the softer texture of the cloth eye patch is all he feels; it's warm from his body heat and slightly tattered from the amount of time out in the field he's spent while wearing it, fraying at the edges like the rest of him, maybe, just blending in like it's always been a part of him. If he pressed in right now he'd feel the scarred hollow where there used to be an eyeball – where Abe, Liz, and Hellboy must _still think an eyeball is_.

He's never told him. Oh god, he's never told them about anything here and now he's being _transferred back_ –

He can hear Gus speaking, but it's too distant and nearly drowned out by the screaming of the polar winds outside and the rattling of insulation-blocks in the ceiling above. If he concentrates, he knows he'll hear his own cries of pain out there in the midst of all that inhuman keening, as raw and fresh in his memory as the day that kraken attacked during that patrol and he tried, he really did, but he still got pulled through the ice and those tentacles were there, wrapping around him and crushing the breath from his lungs down there in the inky darkness – oh god, and that _beak_. Those horrible mollusk _teeth_ and the way they scraped against his head, they just rasped along his face until he twisted to get away and they _pierced_.

"_It hurts Gus – oh god why can't I see? Gus? I can't see anything –"_

"_ You are going to be being fine. Mein Gott…_ _die Blutung. I__ am going to stop the bleeding, OK?"_

"_I can't see! Oh god it hurts…"_

"_I am stopping the bleeding. John. You need to listen to me – it is going to be fine."_

"John? You are listening?"

Gus's words pull him out of a vivid image of black, cold wetness and snarling kraken beaks, of pain and breathlessness and the dim sensation of lying on the ice, curled up and shivering as strong hands gathered up his face and pushed it back together again; his partner is staring at him, coffee cup slid to the side of the table and forgotten. The steam coming off of the surface of the liquid is visible even inside the heated base; it's only about sixty degrees or so in the cafeteria, the American recalls, and he can't quite remember what it's like to be any hotter than that. He can't remember summer, or at least an American summer. He can't quite feel the heat of it anymore.

John swallows nervously and jerks his hand away from…the injury. "I'm fine, Gus. I'm listening."

The larger man nods, face set and unreadable, and John can't help but speak the thoughts that are stabbing into his brain like falling icicles, falling broken to the ground in little shards of packed snow. "I just…well…it's just…they don't know. Liz and Hellboy, even Abe...it's not like I _told _them or anything…" A tremor works its way up and down his back, but it has nothing to do with the freezing cold; he can imagine their reactions to how much he's been altered by his time here all too well, even though their faces swim slightly out of focus in his mind's eye.

"_John…I am sorry for what transpired at the Antarctica base. If you don't mind me asking…what happened?"_

"_Oh god, Myers – John. I didn't know – oh god, what happened?"_

"_Jeez Boy Scout, what the hell happened to ya?" _

"…how can I tell them what happened?"

Gus looks away for a second, and John somehow knows that he doesn't have an answer. To his credit, he tries to come up with something comforting to say. "You…tell them…exactly how you would be telling one of us." He leans across the table and claps a hand roughly on John's shoulder, a grin splitting his weathered features. "This Liz, and Abe, and Hellboy, they are your friends, _ja?_ They will understand."

The two of them stare at each other for a moment that seems much longer than it actually is. Finally, John nods and picks up his coffee, defeat soaking into his posture from where his hands grip the mug to where his eye-socket twinges painfully, brain recreating the feel of a gouged orb stinging with salt water. His eyes flick over to the letter – he won't fight the transfer. He could, maybe – once upon a time he could fight the transfer, the very one that got him sent here when he didn't win, the very transfer last November that made it so everything wound up falling into place around him, bit by bit – but he won't. It didn't work last time. It probably won't work now.

"I hope so, Gus. I really hope so."

If he was the same man who arrived here in Antarctica, shivering and wide-eyed, the thought of a plane winging its way through the icy, misty air towards him, coming to take him home again, would being a warm feeling to his heart. He'd think about all the things he'd do once he arrived back in the United States; he'd smile and laugh as he clambered aboard the twin-engine carrier and left this frozen dot of civilization behind. He's not the same man, though, and the thought makes something in his insides clench, squeezing at the soft uninjured parts of him with such force that it almost wrings tears from his eyes – both of them.

Somewhere from deep inside the base, someone loads a scratched disc into the community CD player and something slow and stately begins to play, some Polish number that he's never figured out the lyrics to. John's heard the song many times before; the base's collection of albums is small and he's been listening to the same music for months now, off and on again when someone decides that the sound of snow isn't enough and wants something to listen to besides people, maybe when the stories that they tell one another over and over don't help either. Usually, a few new records come with every other supply drop, nestled within the boxes stacked around and on the straight-backed passengers' seats.

_transferred back_

It's not fair. John has settled in; it was hard at first but he's learned to take the good and the bad parts of this job and now that he's come to accept that, they're _transferring_ him. What good would that do? There have to be dozens of green, eager agents back in Connecticut or Manhattan or wherever they've moved the headquarters to; now that he's got to leave, the Antarctic base will be short a man – _and they can't afford that_. He belongs here. He's needed _here._

He almost _wants_ to be here now, as twisted as it sounds – John realizes dimly that he considers this place a home of some kind, a place where he can come in from the cold and the fear and drink coffee while old Finnish and Spanish pop comes drifting in and people speak in hushed-loud tones, unafraid yet speaking quietly out of habit. It feels like a burrow where he can come and hide, from the pain in his eye and the patch or the thought of _why_ he left or even the way that his mind seems to be changing without his permission to something not quite what it was before, shifting underfoot like permafrost. He doesn't want to have to crawl out of it and face the truth.

Gus knows what he's thinking, as usual, and can only rest a reassuringly heavy hand on his shoulder. The German nods, his eyes accepting and understanding and somehow sad at the same time. "It is tough, leaving, but we all must be leaving sometime. This is your time, John. That is all."

"The last one to leave was Maria, and that was in a body bag." The words are out before he can bite them back and John winces as they seem to visibly strike Gus, carving the wrinkles at his eyes even darker as the man seems to turn inwards for a moment, eyes going dark and blank before focusing with something half-anger, half-sorrow. It was a cheap, bitter comment and they both know it – she didn't _want_ to leave that way. It was just bad luck, having the permafrost start cracking, picking the wrong piece of snowpack to step on…at least that's what they thought happened. Nobody likes talking about it, or how stiff and splintered the body was when it was finally dragged up and out of the chasm. John remembers looking back down when they had finished pulling her out and thinking for a moment that he saw something else down there, something many-legged and curled up like a spider with a red splotch of frozen blood in the center of its body. He remembers that he didn't mention Maria's death ever, until now. It was too much.

The American agent sighs, blinks a few times to clear the image of blood-streaked ice and broken, frozen fingers from his mind. "I'm sorry, Gus. I didn't mean…you know. Any disrespect. But it's hard…"

It's hard tearing himself away, or it's hard finally coming back. It's the idea of leaving all these faces he's used to seeing every day behind, or it's the thought of finally getting to see the faces of people he hasn't seen for so long, for so long that their faces cease to be faces and turn into vaguely-remembered statements, memories of filed-off horns or long hair or gills that can't be seen, only talked about and not really _known_ anymore. It's living with why he's here and what he's seen or done, or else it's breaking free of the routine that's collected around him like ice and finding himself vulnerable to something new, something he can't prepare for like an eye as big as his head under the snow. It's either one or the other – John doesn't know which one. He supposes that it doesn't even matter anymore. He supposes that nothing matters anymore.

"…it's just so hard."

The large man nods, just as calm as before. Gus is caught in his own dilemma now, now that John's leaving, but he remains as resolute as ever. Good old Gustav Hoffman – John knows that whatever happens after he leaves, his partner will still be the same. It's comforting enough that Myers can stand up and smile, although his face seems frozen.

"I should go now and get my stuff together."

"You should."

John turns to the kitchen, intent on washing the coffee cup, but Gus stops him. Gnarled hands with frostbitten fingertips close around the ceramic mug and the older man shakes his head. "I will do the washing."

The ice around his face cracks, shifts, and John can only choke out a quick '_Vielen Dank'_ before skittering off.

**After a more-than-lengthy absence, I decided to continue this story, rewriting it and editing where necessary in order to make the entire thing flow more smoothly. This is going to be a John-centric story, dealing specifically with his transfer from the Antarctic base to the Manhattan base and the resultant mental and physical actions taken. 'Verse-wise, this is in the movie-verse, with more than a few references to the comic-verse and some Lovecraft added in. If you're a fan of Lovecraft's works, you might know what's being alluded to. If not, please enjoy reading.**


	2. Chapter 2

Time passes in the Antarctic base – it's the summer season, so the idea of a day is just that, an _idea_ – and eventually the day comes where a radio transmission asking permission to land on the base's tiny airstrip is heard long before the fat black fly of a plane is spotted on the horizon. John is called in, briefed one last time – several files and reports are given to him with explicit directions to hand them off to Director Manning, and Director Manning _only_ – and told to collect his belongings and turn in the gun and knife that he's been assigned for his time here.

That's the exact phrase that Director Halmoon uses: "time here."

"Take care of yourself out there," says the worn-down woman with a tired smile, patting the file about him that she's got spread on her desk with all the tenderness that she the head of a small animal, a puppy or kitten or other mewling thing. As John nods and automatically says something in response – something dry and expected like _I will_ or _you too_ – she looks up at him and seems to search his face for something, ice-pale eyes flicking back and forth in sockets they're just slightly too big for.

"I mean it," she says with more gravity than the situation may call for – except that's a lie; this is too important and terrible for John to be taken lightly – and then she sends John out the door with an order to "pack up quickly – this plane has to leave on schedule and it won't wait for you."

-i-i-i-

It takes maybe twenty minutes for John to collect all of his belongings, and it takes the crew of the plane four hours to refuel and load all the boxes of used materials and cases of samples on board. In the meantime, he goes through everything that he has, noting with a bewildered, bitter kind of humor that there's so _little_ there to really look at or pack away: a coat, clothing, a book he brought with him, pictures of his parents and a rosary. Everything else was lent to him here and then returned or left behind, needed more here than where he's going to be.

Briefly, he wonders if anyone's life can be broken down and put in a bag like this, and then the bitter, sardonic thought comes that, for Maria, it was exactly that. After that, John shakes the thought away and gets to his feet, ashamed of himself, to find everyone before he leaves them for good.

-i-i-i-

Molly Bauxbaum intercepts him before he can even make his way to the main area, her brick-colored hair standing out like a traffic light in the grey-white-tan of the hallway; John slows down as she talks towards him, his bag swinging at his side and his face feeling frozen, and when the two of them finally stop a few feet apart and look at one another dumbly he's not quite sure of what to say. What does someone say in a situation like this?

He doesn't really know, but luckily Molly is the one to break the awkward silence before it sets like gelatin. Eyeing the bag at his side, she blinks and her shoulders slump, posture sliding downwards like snow off a mountain.

"I heard you were leaving," she says, and John can only nod. Swallowing, the Englishwoman chews on the inside of her mouth before pulling a small letter out of her parka – except not quite a letter, John realizes as she hands it to him, feeling its weight. It's more like a small package, something that'd be sent in a bubble-wrap folder instead of the flimsy envelope she has it in. He looks at it and feels small things rolling around inside, coins or marbles or knucklebones in there jingling together faintly. Molly looks embarrassed.

"Oh lord – I'm so sorry, John, but I just…you know how they are with personal mail. I can't just give this to them and expect them to send it – it's for my nephew, the little thing always loves hearing about his auntie all the way down in Antarctica – "

"Sure," he says without too much ado, hefting the package one last time in his grip. "I'll mail it, if you'd like."

Molly smiles and envelops him in a shivery sort of hug before he can do or say anything else. "Thank you, John. Thank you so much. The address is already on there, but I don't know how much it'll cost to post it – "

"Don't worry about it," he murmurs into her hair, because he isn't worrying about it at the moment. He's almost beyond worry at this point, really – there's a cloud in his head between what he sees and hears and knows and how he feels, like a film over his heart. His chest doesn't even feel tight knowing that Molly has family that she can talk to sometimes, even though she's in the base here and they're in the world out there. That knowledge should make him feel better, but it doesn't.

_transferred back_

He finds Gus in the small recreation room, watching Sam and Xys playing fooseball, and this time he knows exactly what to say.

"I'm sorry."

Gus turns and looks at him, brow furrowed. "Sorry? For what?"

"For…this." And that should be it, but there's something foreign and cold pushing words out before his brain can really think them through and put them into sentences, and he keeps talking. "Well, this, and also for when the ice broke, and after, and in the beginning – "

He'd keep going on and on and on, too, if Gus doesn't stop him. Luckily, the German claps his rough, heavy hands on both of John's shoulders and shakes his head.

"You are not. It is OK. OK?"

The loop in his brain grinds slowly to a halt, record of worry and fear and self-loathing and too many other emotions to count slowed down from high-pitched skittering, to low murmur, to nothing. John breathes in, breathes out. Gus nods and takes his hands off of his shoulders.

"Gut. Now go home and do not worry about all of this. All will be fine here; it never changes."

_But that's the bad part_, John wants to say. _it doesn't change but we do, and now I've been _transferred back _and I've got to go home and be normal and myself again_.

He wants to say it, but he doesn't, and later on he will remember that and regret it, regret it.

-i-i-i-

They hold a small party for him, a coat-off and mug-held affair that gets him one last cup of fake instant coffee and best wishes for when he goes back to civilization as they all knew it, or still know it in theory. John is hugged and has his hand shook, is laughed with and at and for in the small crowd and offered a small Finnish chocolate bar that someone had stored away someplace. Laughing awkwardly, sadly, bewilderedly and above all numbly, he says his goodbyes and they say theirs.

Later on, maybe, he'll appreciate it, but as it's happening all that John can think about is how much the small ceremony is like a wake.

-i-i-i-

Finally, the time comes and the last of the supplies and artifacts are loaded onto the small plane, John himself included as he walks up the gangplank into the belly of the thing with his bag and his coat and his eyepatch. Inside the base, he can see the skeleton crew of people he's worked with and come to think of as something almost like a family staring at him through the frosted windows, their faces blurred and hard to see.

He waves, and they wave back. He goes into the plane and puts his bag down in the cramped "passenger's area" and the platform rises. The engines start up with a groan in the icy air.

Then, of course, the plane takes off without too much fuss and the long wait sets in.

-i-i-i-

Out of the five-man crew of the supply plane, none of them are from the Antarctic base, and – even though he doesn't want it to – that drives a wedge between John and the good-natured man with freckles and sandy hair who comes out from the cockpit once the plane is cruising. Slightly uncoordinated and energetic, this puppy of a man seats himself in front of John and pulls out a pack of well-ruffled cards, shuffling them expertly and grinning as he looks him right in the eyes – both eyes, his normal one and the one hidden behind the patch.

"You play?"

John plays most card games pretty well at this point, but the sudden eye contact sends shivers of nervousness and irritation through him – what must he be thinking, seeing the patch and the scarring? What will Hellboy and Liz and Abe and the others think when they see? Why did he look – this man with his cards shouldn't just _look_ at him like that, not at his bad eye, it's rude and it makes him nervous and now he finds himself dwelling on things he'd rather not, just because this one man wants to be pushy and overly-kind and –

"No," says John with more bite than he would have normally used, and the man gets up with an affronted expression. Immediately, John feels guilty and tries to make amends – "I mean…" – but it's too late and the sandy-haired man goes back to the cockpit, irritably muttering something that has to be about him. The door opens, closes, and after that there's no further contact beyond a simple glance to make sure he's alright and one or two cordial, curt words.

John isn't sure whether to be embarrassed with himself or relieved, and that alone would make him worry but it doesn't. Instead, he leans back and stares at the crates and cases piled around him like building blocks and tries to pass the time.

Well, time passes.

-i-i-i-

Time passes.

-i-i-i-

Time passes.

-i-i-i-

Time passes.

-i-i-i-

Time passes, and eventually John Myers is bored and begins to think.

Then, because such things are hard to think about when you haven't seen or heard or felt them in a while, John finds himself turning to abstracts, to events that have just occurred, and then to the one question that's been hanging in the back of his skull like an icicle, dripping cold water onto his brain and yet somehow still growing longer and longer the more he tries to ignore it.

Is what he's doing the right thing, he wonders, tucked in amongst the boxes and tarps. Did he do the right thing while he was there?

Now that he thinks about it, John Myers realizes that he's never thought of things in the grand scheme of morality before – it's always been clear-cut _good_ and clear-cut _bad_, dried out and neatly sorted throughout his life into things that he's done right and things he hasn't done right. Even when Abe called him a man of pure heart he'd failed to stop and consider it fully – he'd only gently rebuffed the statement and thought to himself that he can't really be that good of a human being, not him, sorry but you're mistaken. Even when he was underground in those tunnels – Sebastian Plackba, No. 18 – and fighting to keep Hellboy on their side, on the right side, it'd never been anything but the fact that this was _not what Hellboy was_, it was wrong and John knew it in a way that came naturally and that was it.

Even in the midst of a battle between darkness and light, good and evil, it'd just been…cut and dry. But now that he considers it in the back of the shuddering, humming plane, the BPRD agent finds that he can't think of anything that he's done in Antarctica as anything but patrol, and cold, and time in the base, and warmth, and then venturing out of the small dot of civilization to find a barren, frozen plain of ice and ice and _ice_ that boggled the mind with its vastness.

The tundra is almost too big to grasp as a concept; the brain simply turns it into a word – _tundra_, and even then it refuses to sound right, to roll off the tongue smoothly – and chooses to leave it at that, because the realness of the ice plains and the chasms and the dark water slumbering below is too much for anyone to handle. John has never thought of the tundra before, only of _tundra_ and of ice wolves, wendigo, thin ice, frozen things…and krakens.

There is no such thing as _tundra_ for John Myers; there is only Horror hidden under ice that seems sturdy and pure and safe, beaks and eyes and webbed things best forgotten slithering under the white like an autopsy underneath a tarp. He tries not to draw any connections, tries to leave the subject be and muse on what Starbucks will taste like after so much time without, but his mind doesn't always listen to him.

There is only Horror, and cold, and the ice – and then there is also good and bad, or so he tells himself.

Time passes.

-i-i-i-

Time passes.

-i-i-i-

Time passes.

-i-i-i-

Time passes.

-i-i-i-

Time passes, and the plane flies over ice and land and oceans, time zones and air currents bunching behind it like snarled yarn. The day and realization that he's _transferred back _and _going home_ begins to catch up with John and his eyelids – eye_lid_, he thinks to himself without emotion, _eyelid_ – get heavy. The vibrations of the plane are soothing, he's warmer than he's been in a while, and with his hood and ruff bunched up behind him like a pillow he drops off to sleep, mind bobbing like a buoy in and out of the water of his consciousness, deeper then shallower, deeper then shallower...

Time passes, and John Myers loses himself in the water.

-i-i-i-

The crunch of snowpack underneath oversize boots pulls his attention back to the task at hand.

If he looked back he would see the twin rows of teardrop-shaped tracks left behind him, pressed into crisp snow that covers the massive sheets of ice lurking below – all is still and under that is water that's barely seen the sun, gurgling, water like black ink that's so cold that one submersion can kill – a few brief seconds, enough to count to five, count to five and that's it, you're _done like dinner _like Maria always says –

Lots of things can kill you in a few seconds here, and yet as he walks over his imminent demise in about five seconds he feels oddly giddy, he feels okay, numb but okay, it's okay –

"_Tall and tan and young and lovely, the girl from Ipanema goes walking…"_

The breeze picks up and John instinctively knows what's about to happen, feels it in his gut and in the heavy numbness of his tired legs before his airy, windblown brain can figure out what he's reacting to. Quickly he ducks his head, burying his face in the warm muff of the parka as he digs the tips of his poles into the snow, leaning into the frigid wind – funny how the world takes on an angle like that, isn't it, is it him or everything else that's wrong and sideways here –

Gus, only a few feet ahead, does the same, and the wind just keeps blowing.

The cable connecting the two agents stretches – a thin black line against the expanse of white as a sheet of ice crystals drapes itself over them – the world dissolves away and John cannot see his partner amid the blankness in his field of vision, cannot hear him over the whispering of the air and the eerie hum of the taut guideline. Snowflakes settle on his arms with inaudible whispers, crystalline laughter at the very edges of his hearing, something whispering in the white –

An irrational fear takes hold – _what if the cable's broken?_

"_What song is that, Gus?"_

He's got to shout over the murmur of the wind and his voice cracks – Gus must hear the strain behind the question – the reassuring shape of his partner draws near in the whiteout. The snow crackles and the reassuring sound of breathing – not just his own, thank god, _not just his own_ – is almost lost to the exhalation of the wind, the chuckle sliding down his neck and freezing him, humming eerily –

"_What is it, John?" _

"_The, uh, the song. That song you were just singing. I was just wondering what it was."_

"_The song? It is a song I am hearing a long time ago – 'The Ipanema Girl.' You have heard –"_

The whiteout swirls around them and Gus vanishes from view once more before John can reply – his blurred silhouette lost in the swarming snowflakes. The rumble and flow of Gus's words is cut short all of a sudden – it simply flicks off like a radio alongside the hum of the cable as it does slack. The static sound of the whirling snow is in his ears as an icy dread takes hold – John reaches out, gropes around in the vast whiteness, and touches nothing –

"_Gus?"_

His voice is muffled, flat-sounding – the muttering of the snow is all that answers and his ears begin to ring – John fumbles for the cable clipped to his belt, tugging on it and squinting through the erratic clouds of his breath – pulling on it, he gathers it up into stiff coils in his arms until the frayed end is in his hands. He looks. He looks. He looks at it –

"_**Gus?"**_

The ringing becomes a roar as he stares at the frayed bit of rope – mindlessly he brushes off the flakes of snow that are already encrusting the feathery strands and stares at it. The cable's broken. The cable's _broken_.

"Agent Myers?"

Frantically he whirls around, looking for his partner as the arctic envelops him, pulling him into its freezing embrace – the world shrinks in, forming almost tangible walls as the snowflakes gather on his arms, his head, his torso – he can feel the kiss of certain death as it pulls him into icy womb, a gurgling heartbeat flowing beneath him like ink as the numbness of hypothermia jabs silver splinters into his thighs, pricking its way up towards his shuddering lungs.

There are lots of things that can kill you in seconds here – the cable broke. The goddamn cable broke.

But somewhere in the whiteness someone is still singing that _song_, he can hear that song can't he can't he _can't he_ –

"Hey!"

John opens his eyes and he's on the plane.

-i-i-i-

The sandy-haired man is leaning over him, something unreadable on his face as he takes his hand off of John's shoulder. "Good. You're awake."

Dimly, John rubs the sleep out of his eyes and off his face with the swipe of an oddly-cold hand; this is the first time in weeks that the American has had to be shaken awake, and it throws him off for a few moments. If he was out in patrol, he would have probably been dead by now. If there had been something roaming around the base or camp it'd be impossible to react, that's it, he's dead – after all, they're here already, whoever _they_ are and wherever _here_ is. Where is he?

It takes a moment for him to remember that he's not in Antarctica anymore, but when he does a whimper of a laugh escapes him. Right. _Transferred back_.

How long had he slept?

"You okay, bud?" The sandy-haired man settles down in the same seat he'd occupied before, his eyes once again searching John's, although this time more with concern and something the American can't quite place than with good-natured rudeness and mirth. John shrugs, still not quite sure what's happened while he's asleep, and the man shakes his head. "We heard you from in the cockpit and I figured I'd check in on you."

"…oh." There's really not much to say – what could they have possibly heard? John tries to think about what he must have been dreaming of while he was asleep – how long has he been sleeping? – and can't think of anything beyond ice, and cold, and walking. He hasn't really thought of much besides that in so long, though, that it doesn't come as a surprise and more as a slight feeling of discomfort. There had to be something that he isn't remembering now. What happened while he was asleep?

John opens his mouth to ask, but before he can say something the sandy-haired man cuts him off, tone not exactly uneasy but not comfortable.

"Some dream, huh."

"…yeah," is all that John says, and then after a few assurances and remarks, the sandy-haired man vanishes back into the cockpit again.

Resolutely, John decides that he won't sleep until they get there – and then remembers that he doesn't know how long it's been. Silently, he curses to himself and shifts in place so he's not comfortable. He's not going to sleep. He'd rather not have a repeat of what just happened.

Of course, going from Antarctica to Manhattan takes time. Time passes and John falls asleep again.

-i-i-i-

Time passes.

-i-i-i-

Time passes.

-i-i-i-

Time passes, but John isn't always running alongside it.

-i-i-i-

"Hey. We're here."

Myers rubs his good eye with a callused hand, fixing the eye patch that's slid slightly to one side as he feels around for his duffel bag, half awake, half-asleep, fully warm and dazed in his coat and skin that both feel too hot as he fumbles around in the stilled plane. The worn, stiff loop of the handle finds its way into his grasp and he straightens up from his hunched position, throwing his belongings over one shoulder.

His back aches from the amount of time he's spent in the metal-enforced chair and, for a fleeting second, John feels like an old man. The moment passes and he twists at the wrist, hearing the satisfying _click_ of vertebrae.

The sandy-haired man is looking at him again, face blank and clamped in that perplexed mask that he'd worn before when he woke him up the first time from the dream; John smiles uneasily and nods, not quite sure of what to say to him. Thanking him for the ride seems odd – he was rude and then strange and he can't have been a particularly enjoyable passenger, and the man was only following orders.

"Got any questions?"

John does, so he simply nods again and licks his dry lips, sticking his hand into his pocket and pulling out the crumpled transfer notice. It's going to be like this for everyone, it seems.

"Uh…so, when am I supposed to...?"

He trails off, thankful for the ease with which the man picks up the meaning of his half-finished sentence. The man with the freckles and the tan hair plucks the paper from John's hands and skims it with analytical eyes; with a hum of satisfaction he pokes a surprisingly smooth fingertip at a line of text and speaks.

"You've got two days to get 'reacquainted with policy,' – then you're right back into the fray. The Director should tell you everything else you need to know."

The paper is handed back; John takes it with a quick "thanks" and follows the man to the doorway, weaving his way around seats and crates and almost overturning a box of papers. He hikes his bag further up his shoulder and scratches at his neck, both impatient and afraid of the hatch in front of him sliding open – of the world reaching in and plucking him out of this one little patch of safety. It's got Antarctic air in it – that means it's almost home. Almost.

Almost?

No, not almost. That's completely wrong. This isn't home.

"Hey. Agent Myers."

John starts and looks over. The sandy-haired man has his hand on the door latch. "What?"

"Take it easy, okay?"

John nods dumbly. "Okay."

"Good. See you round, then."

The door whisks open with a pneumatic hiss and John Myers is assaulted by heat and sound.

**I'd just like to thank everyone who has reviewed and added this story to their alert or favorite list thus far. I didn't know that this story would be so well-received, and I'm grateful to those of you who added this to your alerts list and, hopefully, will read this chapter when you get the notification email for it. :) **

**This chapter was a little hodge-podge; I wrote it over the course of several months off and on and only just now found it again and finished it up, more or less. Any constructive criticism, reactions, or guesses as to what will happen later on are welcomed, along with suggestions of what I could and should be doing with this. I'm here to entertain you all, not the other way around, so if you would like to see something, suggest it and I'll try to make it happen.**


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